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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266594">Backup</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77'>cat_77</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury, Malcolm Bright Whump, Non-Consensual Drug Use</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:00:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,930</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn’t call for backup.  That didn’t mean that they weren’t still there for him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malcolm Bright &amp; team</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>169</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Backup</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Found a new show that I’m kinda really hooked on.</p>
<hr/>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Okay, so maybe he should have waited for backup this time.  It would have been a new experience, but one that Gil had encouraged him to do in pretty much all situations as of late.  As had Dani.  And JT.  And his mother.  And Martin.</p>
<p>The last one is possibly why he had gone without.  An underlying determination to defy anything Martin Whitly requested.  He could deal with the psychological ramifications of that little issue later as he had far more pressing matters at hand at the moment.</p>
<p>Matters like his own hands.  They were currently bound in a makeshift yet incredibly effective amalgam of wide metal almost-handcuff restraints and one of the solid U-shaped bike locks, looped around a pipe that led to a possibly defunct radiator in a rather chilly room.  Then again, it was possible that the radiator worked just fine, but simply was not set to a comfortable temperature.  It was also possible that his needs for a comfortable temperature were currently altered from the norm.  </p>
<p>His mind was drifting, which was simply unacceptable.  He needed to focus if he was going to make it out of here, preferably alive though already determinedly not unscathed.  The pain was… unpleasant, to say the least.  It could be worse, he supposed, and likely would be soon if he didn’t break free sooner rather than later.  There was no breaking a thumb here, not with this setup.  There was a far more simple solution if he could just get his body to move the way he wanted it to.</p>
<p>He shifted and tried not to groan out loud at the action.  Noise would alert before he was ready.  Noise would equal either more of whatever it was that had been shoved down his throat earlier or simple acceleration to the final act.  He had complained about his tolerance for certain narcotics in the past, but it was proving to be in his favor now as he had apparently shaken off the worst of what he was given before the prescribed timeline.  His captor/assailant was nowhere to be found, at least within visual or auditory purview, though he had left with a promise to return once Malcolm could fully enjoy what was to transpire which meant he was undoubtedly nearby.  </p>
<p>Enjoy might not be the correct word as what awaited him was an excruciating death.  Then again, the man had seemed to enjoy himself earlier while Malcolm himself most definitely had not, so perhaps his descriptors were not that inaccurate.</p>
<p>Drifting.  Again.  Time.  Ticking.  Far too fast.</p>
<p>He willed his body to lurch forward and was pleased when the last of the paralytic seemed to fade away.  True, the pain was even greater, aching muscles letting themselves be known after being held in one position for so long, but he could move almost freely versus being a stoic yet unwilling participant to events.  Events that he had felt not quite fully, but enough to be aware of, which proved Edrisa’s theory correct, not that she was often wrong when it came to the scientific aspects of drugs and other chemicals.</p>
<p>He had made the assumption that Souliet was close because it was the most damning one.  This meant that he had very few opportunities left.  He knew the initial attempt would more than likely alert anyone nearby, just as he knew it would fail.  He figured he had three to four chances total before his host discovered what he was doing and came to stop him should he be in range to do so.  He also figured the stopping would be of a permanent nature.</p>
<p>There was the slam of a door too far away to be certain of its locale, but it was possibly within the same building.  With everything else to lose, he yanked.  As expected, nothing happened aside from a rather loud clank.  Well, technically not nothing as there was a thud from somewhere near that door followed by the rush of booted footsteps down a hallway.  He yanked again, and the steps echoed as though from a stairway.  One more time, and he had no clue where the steps were as the pipe broke free at the weak point of less than stellar solder, the blinding steam that billowed forth showing that the damned thing had been on after all.  </p>
<p>The door behind him burst open, and Souliet barreled closer.  Malcolm stumbled to his feet despite knowing it was just that much farther to fall from, toes seemingly finding the same splinters his fingers had earlier. He tugged the pipe in the rough direction of the looming man, hoping to maybe partially blind him.</p>
<p>It failed, as evidenced by him soon being tossed up against the patched plaster wall.  Souliet took half a step back, arm coiled for a hit as he seethed, “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”</p>
<p>Malcolm used the millisecond pause to shift his hands slightly.  “Well, my name is Bright, so, kind of?” he managed with a telling wheeze.  With a solid grip on the lock, he swung upwards, a satisfying crunch informing him that he had made his target as much as the stream of blood that followed.  Souliet stumbled, distracted by his newly broken nose, and Malcolm followed through the way all of his instructors had taught him, smacking again and again and again until only a lump of an unconscious man remained before him.  His feet slipped in the small pool of blood that had formed, and he debated collapsing himself, but knew this was his one chance for a full escape.</p>
<p>First things first though.  He tugged his pants up and his shirt down so that he wasn’t tripping over either of them, prouder than he needed to be when the lock only bounced off of his knee once.  He then patted down the body before him and grabbed keys and a cellphone.  His was long gone and, though the one now in his hands was locked, he had a very bad idea that might possibly get help to come to him versus the other way around.  </p>
<p>He pressed Souliet’s thumb to the little circle and breathed a sigh of relief when the damned thing unlocked, not sure what he would have done if it was set to facial recognition instead.  A breath, a long-memorized number typed, and he replied to the demand to know who the hell was calling with, “Hello, mother, it’s me.  Have Gil track this signal and come get me?  I’m not sure when this guy’s going to wake up.”</p>
<p>“Malcolm!” his mother exclaimed, wasting time.  “We’ve been so worried.  You’ve been missing for hours, dear, over eight of them to be precise.  No response to calls or texts, just what have you been doing?”</p>
<p>“Nothing I chose,” he muttered before he thought better of it.  He hobbled over to the window on the far side of the room and tugged back a corner of the cardboard covering it.  “Seventh and Foley.  The street sign outside says Seventh and Foley.  Can you get Gil here, please?  This guy’s going to be pissed when he wakes up, and I’d prefer if he was in cuffs by then.”  His voice wavered; a tell his mother would see through.</p>
<p>There was a pause, a swallow.  “Malcolm, what happened?” she asked with the calmness that usually meant she was anything but.</p>
<p>“A lot of not good things,” he replied, knowing she would refute anything else.  “Just… please either tell me Gil’s number or send him here?  I can’t remember it right now.  I should, but I can’t.  Stress reaction, you know how it is.  You can tell this isn’t my phone, have him track it if needed.”</p>
<p>There was a pause, a rustle of noise.  “I sent it to him.”  A click.  “He’s already calling me.  What happened?  What did you get yourself into this time?”</p>
<p>“Answer him,” he directed instead.  “I’m hanging up because I need both hands for something.”  Not quite a lie, but he could have easily switched the phone to speaker mode.  He pushed the button to disconnect instead, and knew time was running out in a different manner all together.</p>
<p>That Gil had called his mother meant that Gil had questioned the information that was given to her and likely her safety.  She would verify it was him and what she had been told thus far and Gil would then try to call him.</p>
<p>He had the keys, including a little one that might fit the massive cuffs.  There was a slightly larger one that might fit the bike lock itself, but the cuffs were more important at the moment.  The phone rang on schedule but it was locked again and it fell to voicemail before he could try the whole unlocking trick a second time.  That was fine as he knew the earlier call and the number itself could and likely would be tracked.  A lot of twisting and some less than comfortable maneuvering later, and he had a hand free.  He resisted the urge to chuck the lock itself at the unconscious man’s head and simply worked on the other cuff.  He tossed the detritus to the floor but pocketed the keys in case he needed them for a door or a car for escape.  </p>
<p>That gave him an idea and he looked to the door to the room only to discover it was already warped and likely would not stay closed.  As much as he’d rather have absolutely nothing to do with Souliet again, he reached for the discarded cuffs, igniting another layer of pain.  After more work than it was probably worth, he manipulated the lax arms of the disgraced chemist enough to chain them together.  </p>
<p>Souliet grunted with the action and Malcolm took an involuntary jump back, nearly skidding on the mess of the floor.  The phone rang again but he did not want to risk waking his would-be captor up and face the consequences.  There were sirens now, in the distance.  The abandoned apartment building marked for renovation was not that far from the precinct, really, only a couple of miles.  He chose the coward’s way out and did not stay with the possibly slightly conscious man and instead made his way down the hallway, down the steps that he nearly slid down instead, to the back door that had slammed long minutes or hours ago.</p>
<p>It was unlocked, but still took most of his rapidly dwindling strength to pry open.  He paused to right what he could of himself knowing he would be dealing with trained detectives soon enough.  It was half-assed, but he didn’t have the energy to do much more.  Satisfied for loose definitions thereof, he braced himself against the doorjamb, knew it would look more suspicious if he left entirely, and waited.  Not long, only a few hundred ragged breaths, and he winced against the glare of the lights.  It was dusk but the red and blue shone against it all.</p>
<p>A screech, a slam, and the rush of footfalls, these ones almost welcomed.  Hands on his shoulders, inadvertently jostling the abused tendons there.  “Are you alright, Bright?” Gil demanded.</p>
<p>He wasn’t ready to answer that, not yet.  He fished in his pocket for the keys and held them up, knew eyes traced the blood on hands, the deep rings around his wrist.  “Second floor, West, no, Northwest corner.  Cuffed him with what he used on me.”</p>
<p>Gil took the bait like he knew he would.  Dani stepped up beside him like he suspected she would.  It was JT that spoke first, hand on his weapon despite just hearing where the actual criminal was and that said criminal was already possibly incapacitated.  “You look like shit,” he said with what passed as concern for him.</p>
<p>Malcolm shrugged, as there was no denying it.  He even managed to make it look almost normal.  He could deny something else though when Dani commented, “That’s a lot of blood, Bright…”</p>
<p>“I broke his nose,” he declared proudly.  “A couple of times, actually.”</p>
<p>“Of course you did,” JT huffed.  It might have been with pride save for the eye roll at the end.  He patted him right where Gil had and led the remaining officers in and leaving only Dani behind as his self-appointed guard dog.  One of the shiny silver blankets she kept in her car was wrapped around him like he was in shock or something, but he took the extra layer and managed a choked off thanks for her efforts.</p>
<p>She opened her mouth to ask him something, but he never found out what it was.  There was another slam of another car door, this one far more high-end than anything anyone at the precinct would shell out for.  Almost as if he had scripted it, his mother appeared, high heels crunching on gravel and glass like it was the well-polished floor of her foyer.  “Malcolm!  Oh, honey!” she exclaimed as she approached.</p>
<p>She held her arms out as if to hug him, to hold him, but he held a hand up to stop her.  “Pretty sure you don’t want this on your Gucci,” he tried to quip.</p>
<p>“I’m your mother, I get to hug you and check to see if you’re okay,” she replied.  Then, as she did just that, she smirked and corrected, “And it’s Versace.”  She pulled back, silk stained with unmentionables yet still looking as unflappable as always in the semi-public eye.  “What do you need?”</p>
<p>“Sitting down would be nice?  And a hot shower would not be something I would be opposed to,” he admitted.</p>
<p>She hustled him right past a protesting Dani, his feet too numb to feel if he found any of the debris he knew he stepped across.  There were words, something about him needing to get checked out by an actual medical professional, needing a report, needing details that he truly wasn’t ready to give just yet.  “Relax, he’s just sitting in the back seat,” his mother replied as she helped him do just that.  He hid his wince but she looked at him knowingly and added, “And I can get him far better care than anything the station could manage.”</p>
<p>She left the door open though, letting Malcolm loll against the seat while she stood protectively in front of it.  He gave the briefest, least detailed version of events as he could to Dani, who likely knew precisely what he was doing and let him get away with it for now.  When Dani stepped back to go see what Gil wanted, he made sure to shiver within view of his mother.  She ordered her driver to crank the heat and asked him if there was anything else she could do.  It was his one chance, and he took it.</p>
<p>“I want to go home,” he admitted.  He didn’t even try to hide the waver this time, and let about half of what he was feeling shine through in his expression.  From the look of determination she gave him, he knew that the likelihood of doing just that was no longer in question.</p>
<p>She closed the door and he could just make out her telling the approaching Gil that he was cold.  There was an almost argument followed by the briefest moment of distraction on his supposed boss’s part.  His mother struck while she could and did what she so rarely did and sat in the front passenger seat.  Gil objected because he wasn’t actually dumb.  “I’m taking my boy home,” she told him, and then closed that door as well.</p>
<p>The trip was short enough that he stayed awake for it, but long enough that he really wished he hadn’t.  She surprised him and didn’t take him to the sprawling mansion, likely thinking he didn’t need potential trauma from that while dealing with his more recent version.  He made his way up the steps to his loft by sheer willpower.  When his mother paused to set her purse down on the counter, he continued his shuffle, right through to his bathroom where he closed and locked the door behind him.</p>
<p>“A thank you would have been nice,” his mother commented through the door.  There was a scrape of a chair and he knew she settled in for the long haul.  “You know, for helping you avoid the police that you are so clearly hiding something from?  Dear god, I think you finally made me an actual criminal.”</p>
<p>He opened the door a crack, not enough for her to take advantage of from where she was, and peeked through.  “Thank you,” he told her with as much sincerity as he could manage.  He then glanced backwards and added, “Wash.”</p>
<p>He closed and locked the door again, but not before he heard her commentary of, “Monosyllabic?  Always a good sign.”</p>
<p>He tossed the foil blanket to the side, remotely thankful that it kept some of the grime off of the leather seats of his mother’s car, and accidentally glanced in the mirror while doing so.  JT had not been wrong in his earlier assessment.  His hair was a greasy mess spattered with things he’d rather not think about.  His left cheek had a large red abrasion on it from where it had rubbed against first the cement where he had been caught and later the uneven wood floor.  His lip was puffy but not fully split, and a dark circle of bruises lined his throat in the shape of fingerprints.  He idly wondered if anyone would notice they were in the wrong direction, holding him down versus holding him back.</p>
<p>He turned on the water and attempted to remove his shirt.  The buttons were tiny and slippery in his clumsy hands, but he eventually managed it.  The fabric stuck to him in places dyed shades of red and brown from the now dried blood.  He was tempted to let the water loosen it, but knew he didn’t have the patience for that.  He yanked, first to free it and then to toss it to the side, his shoulders protesting the action.  They were less bruised but no less sore, and he knew the soon to be steaming water would help with that.</p>
<p>Finally, the thing he dreaded more than he wanted to admit to anyone.  His belt was long gone and the button barely there, but the zipper had held so there was at least that.  He shimmied out of the once navy-blue fabric, and the fabric under that as well.  He tried not to look, but still caught a glimpse: more bruises and the trickle of dried blood down his thighs.</p>
<p>Yeah, there was the chance this one was going to end in even more nightmares for him.  Unless fate did him a favor and his penchant for repressed memories kicked in instead.</p>
<p>He stepped into the near scalding spray and hoped it washed the evidence of his last eight hours away.  Not something someone working with the police department should think, but something he hoped for just the same.  He soaped and shampooed and soaped some more.  His skin was raw from the injuries, the heat, the sting of things that might possibly cleanse.  It wasn’t enough.  He scrubbed again, let the water run into his eyes, could still see the way his own fingers nearly lined up with the four precise lines across his hip.</p>
<p>Memories came back.  Unbidden.  Unwelcomed.  </p>
<p>His profile had been correct, as always.  Souliet fulfilled his baser needs with his victims, made sure they could not fight back while he did so.  When he was done with them, the shame kicked in, and he tried to erase it all.  No, not all, just the identity of the victim, the body and what he had done to it somewhat remaining.  That’s what the container at the foot of the staircase had been for.  Hydrochloric at some significant molarity.  Melt off the face.  Melt off the fingerprints.  Melt off any identifying marks.  He occasionally spilled and burned the victim elsewhere, little spots of red and molted flesh.  Maybe it was if the victim fought back.  Hands first, while they were still conscious per Edrisa’s analysis, then face, drowning and burning and ending it all.</p>
<p>Burning.  Like the water that poured over him.  Not that even his fancy water heater could put up with much more for much longer as it was already giving up the ghost.  He recoiled from it anyway, curled up in the far corner of the tub, let the splashes hit him and wondered if they would melt away the shame.</p>
<p>Pounding.  No, a knock.  No, definitely pounding against the door.  For how long, he couldn’t tell.  “Finish up or I’ll break this damned thing down myself,” came the threat.  Not from his mother.  Deeper.  Gil.  Gil was here.  Gil would live up to that promise.</p>
<p>He unwound himself and reluctantly turned off the now tepid water, watched diluted pink swirl down the drain.  The softest of towels was like sandpaper against him, the light gray stained a darker red in places and he idly wondered if bleach would get it out.  He rolled everything up in a tight ball and shoved it to a far corner for now, an ample metaphor, really.  There was a dark robe hanging on a hook even if his pajamas were next to his bed.  He tugged it on, combed his fingers through his hair as he couldn’t take the pull of the comb, and reluctantly opened the door.</p>
<p>Gil was already mid-rant.  Fuming but not frothing.  He made out the curt, “If you ever do that again…” but ignored it to stumble towards the nearest chair.  There was noise, likely more ranting, but it ended with something that caught his attention more than any screaming: a very quiet, “Bright?  Are you okay?”</p>
<p>He offered what he knew to be an unconvincing smile and said, “I’m fine.  Just… tired.  A little sore from being in one position for so long, but the water helped.”  He needed more than water, and they all knew it, but he wasn’t quite ready to think up let alone list his demands.</p>
<p>“We found the paralytic, it was mixed with a sedative; how much were you given?”  Dani.  He’d be embarrassed about being in only a robe with her there, but couldn’t muster the energy.  “He was a needle-phobe of all things, so I’m guessing orally administered?  If you’re still fighting it, you might need your stomach pumped.”</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” he repeated, no more convincingly.  “Tired, like I said.  Hungry.  Bruises that might need some ice.”</p>
<p>“You’re going to need more than ice for some of those,” Dani commented with a rough gesture towards his wrists.  She followed it up with another towards his cheek and he belatedly realized the steam might have opened up the scrape and it was possibly not just water from his hair dripping down to his chin.  His mother offered him a dish towel and he patted first at his face, pleased to see very little red dotting the thin fabric, and then at his knuckles which had split nicely and still sort of oozed.  He had managed a few good hits early on, but paid the price for them later.</p>
<p>“I’ll get your first aid kit,” his mother told him, knowing her way around his loft almost as well as he did.  That was fine as her daring to venture into the bathroom was better than any of the others.</p>
<p>She left to do just that and Gil eyed him carefully.  “You really should go to the hospital and get checked out by a professional,” he tried.</p>
<p>Malcolm had a feeling that would be the theme for the night and tried to head it off at the pass.  “I’m really not mentally ready to cope with that right now,” he admitted a little more bluntly than he originally intended.  Then, to sooth that, he added, “Besides, this is only scrapes and bruises.  Ice, antiseptics, and bandages are fine.  No need for small windowless rooms and people draped in lab coats.”  The last part was a cut towards Souliet.  Not that he had worn such a thing during Malcolm’s most recent experience, but he had when they first interviewed him as a suspect at the university lab.</p>
<p>It was enough as he watched Gil argue with himself and visibly back down.  “You sure you won’t need more than that?” was all he asked.  Pensive.  Calculating.  Knowing.</p>
<p>“Trust me, we can get him any painkillers he needs,” his mother said as she returned.  She had seen the tub, the towel, and the aftermath of his day.  She offered him a look, both pointed and haunted at the same time.  “And you need them, so don’t deny it.”</p>
<p>“Won’t they interact with what he was given?” a new voice asked.  JT.  Some part of Malcolm further relaxed at even more of his erstwhile team being there.  It was a part he didn’t want to examine too closely at the moment.  He was tempted to ask for Edrisa, but couldn’t find an appropriate reason for a coroner to be present.</p>
<p>“Pretty much everything is out of my system,” he promised.  It wasn’t a lie.  Even the last of his breakfast had disappeared down the drain under the covering sounds of the shower and the fan.  He had hoped to have time to brush his teeth and had settled for gurgling some water directly from the spray.  “Welcome to my place, by the way.  I can’t remember if you’ve been here before.”</p>
<p>JT nodded and did the thing where he took it all in with barely moving his head.  His gaze eventually came to rest not on the bed with its restraints, but on the wall of weaponry on the other side.  “Pretty much exactly how I thought it’d be,” he admitted drily.</p>
<p>He was distracted then by the sharp sting against his wrist.  It was not his mother who had decided to tend to his wounds, but Gil instead.  That was fair as he wasn’t sure his mother actually knew how to do so anyway.  She eyed the current wound and bit her lip.  A breath and she was as composed as ever once more.  “Malcolm mentioned being hungry, which is a rarity in itself, can I assume the same applies to the rest of you?  I can order Mancini’s, it’s one of his favorites,” she offered.</p>
<p>JT made a face and commented, “Mancini’s doesn’t deliver and doesn’t have takeout.”</p>
<p>His mother blinked but managed to not sound too condescending when she replied, “That won’t be a problem.”</p>
<p>He let them sort out what to order, knowing his mother would choose what she thought was best for him regardless of what he asked for.  Gil used their discussion to initiate one of his own.  No, it was more than that.  Gil tilted his head and both JT and Dani nudged his mother along to as far away as they dared, already asking questions about the menu and making just enough noise to cover whatever Gil was going to attempt.</p>
<p>“How bad is it really?” he asked.  Malcolm opened his mouth to spout a lie, or at least an obfuscation of the truth, but was cut off with, “And don’t you dare say you’re fine.  I read the same report as you and know exactly what this asshole did to his victims before he actually killed them.”</p>
<p>“I… he didn’t actually…” he tried, but the words died on his tongue at the look he received in return.</p>
<p>“You going to do this?  Pretend that Edrisa’s findings were incorrect?  That your own profile was wrong about the timelines and the order of events?” Gil baited.  He knew him too well.</p>
<p>Malcolm shook his head, but he wasn’t sure if it was at the man before him or at himself.  “It’s not…” he started, but trailed off when the words wouldn’t come to him.  He blinked rapidly, a sad attempt to keep his very moist eyes from betraying him.</p>
<p>“Bright…” Gil warned.  The grip on his wrist tightened slightly, enough to make him wince.  His friend immediately loosened his grip in fear of hurting him for real, and he took advantage of that enough to pull free completely.</p>
<p>It was the pity he saw in those familiar eyes that made him break.  He had seen many things over many years, but never that.  “What do you want to hear?” he hissed, mindful to keep his voice down even in his anger.  “Do you want to know how he held me down?  How he chained me face-first to the floor to make it easier?  How he drugged me enough that I couldn’t move but could still mostly feel?  Do you want to know how much lube he used or what brand of condoms?  Tell me what you need to know to write up your little report and make sure I’m declared unfit for duty, unfit to ever do the one thing that I’m actually good at and can make a difference in this world with.”</p>
<p>Images flashed by in his mind, in technicolor complete with sound and smell, his damned need for details ingrained enough to betray him.  The way the wood had tiny granules of plaster and dust embedded deep with the grain.  The way the patches on the wall varied in texture as a sign of their age.  The smell of the solvents being used in the renovation.  The stale sweat and things he’d rather leave unmentioned as it clung to him, clung to them both.  The echo of grunts as he refused to scream.</p>
<p>Gil looked away.  Ashamed, but not of Malcolm, of himself, and all of Malcolm’s anger seemed to dissipate at the realization.  “I’m sorry,” he said, voice not much more than a whisper.  “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you.  I’m sorry that we didn’t find you sooner.  I’m sorry that you had to, that you had to live through this.”</p>
<p>“This is not on you!” Malcolm insisted, knowing he was reading the situation correctly.  The guilt was a palpable thing, and entirely misplaced.  Errors were made, but most of them were his own, not that of anyone else, and he needed to both own that and prevent the others from trying to take their share.  “This is not your fault.  We baited a serial killer and we technically won because I’m still alive.  Not kicking as much as I could be right now but, to be fair, the splinters really hurt.”</p>
<p>That got his attention back.  “Jokes?  You’re making jokes?” Gil huffed in disbelief.  </p>
<p>“Not really because they really do hurt,” Malcolm admitted.  He kicked out a foot slightly, revealing tiny wooden shards as much as the scrapes down his shin.  The shower had loosened some, but others remained.  “But this isn’t your fault.  This isn’t anyone’s fault except a rather insane serial killer’s.  But we stopped him.  We made sure no one else was hurt.  That’s enough, right?  That makes it worth it?”</p>
<p>A heavy hand ruffled his knotted hair before it landed at the base of his neck and he barely heard the denial of, “Not worth it, kid.”  Louder now, his would-be boss added, “I’ll write up your deposition, and I don’t think there will be any issues with it, especially as short as it will be given your memory lapses from an adverse reaction to the drugs and longtime defense mechanisms of suppression.  Recommendations for counseling that you already do, some actual downtime, antibiotics for the open wounds, and testing on the standard regime.”  The last bit was said around a heavy swallow.</p>
<p>“Testing for what?” his mother asked as of course she heard that part.</p>
<p>“He had open wounds and busted a guy’s nose open.  There was blood everywhere.  Just a precaution,” Gil promised almost believingly.  </p>
<p>Malcolm dared to glance over at the others and knew they would see right through the half-truth.  Dani’s lips were pressed together and she blinked a few times to get her own emotions under control.  JT went the route of distraction though and boasted, “Did I ever tell you about the time I took down a junk house almost single-handed?  Needles everywhere.  I told them that I was fine, that I hadn’t even been scratched, but they still made me get tested and take meds and all sorts of shit.”  The unscathed part was a lie because Malcolm himself had seen the scars, but perhaps that was part of the distraction as well, only targeted at himself.</p>
<p>“We, uh, we have procedures for these types of things,” Dani added.  She tugged her hair back away from her face with maybe just a little too much force.  She swallowed and kept up the farce though.  “Keeps people safe, eliminates needless risk, that sort of thing.”</p>
<p>“You know what else keeps people safe?” Gil asked, and Malcolm knew he didn’t need to answer even as he knew what words were coming next.  “Backup.  Calling for it.  Preferably waiting for it.  You see something, you sense something, you reason something is about to happen, and you pull out your damned phone and let us know.”</p>
<p>“He took my phone, pretty much right away,” he pointed out because he couldn’t resist.</p>
<p>“And he got close enough to do so because you followed him without backup,” Dani guessed, not incorrectly.</p>
<p>“Can we chip him?” JT asked, and it was hard to tell if he was kidding.  “Not like they do with dogs where you have to scan ‘em to see who they belong to, like phones or keys or something.  Those little tags that you push a button and it says where they are.”</p>
<p>“I’m not a phone,” Malcolm huffed at the same time as his mother said, “You’re not microchipping my son, that will only encourage a different sort to follow him.”</p>
<p>He opened his mouth to protest that his own mother had made such a comment, but Gil stopped him with the suggestion of, “Or how about you actually call for backup?  And maybe try waiting next time?”</p>
<p>He didn’t directly promise but he knew they didn’t directly expect him to.  Instead, he said, “I’ll try.”</p>
<p>That was deemed enough as the conversation moved on to different topics.  Not entirely pleasant to discuss in front of his mother, but they mentioned the damage to Souliet’s nose, the definite concussion, and how he’d be in recovery for a while leading up to his inevitable trial.  Malcolm’s wrists were wrapped and his toes and fingers freed from the tiny wood shards.  There were other wounds, other aches, but he wasn’t ready to deal with them in front of the others and he knew they were not bad enough for sepsis or any major infection that the antibiotics he would be given couldn’t fight off.</p>
<p>He was allowed a remote bit of privacy to change into something other than a robe and chose some boxers, track pants, and a t-shirt.  He was tempted to grab the matching jacket to the pants, but resisted as it would be far too obvious of a tell of his want for obfuscation.  His mother had cranked the heat up anyway, even Dani removing her jacket so as not to overheat.  He emerged from the bathroom knowing four sets of eyes watched his every move and traced every visible bruise.  He still carried his socks in his hands as his bruised ribs hurt too much to bend sufficiently and the bandages on his fingers and toes got annoyingly in the way anyway.  Gil waited until he had settled on the couch to tug them on for him like he was a child, absolutely no one commenting on the action.</p>
<p>The food came and he discovered his mother had gotten him some lentil soup and caprese salad.  Probably a wise choice for his still sensitive stomach with the added bonus of being a protein source and easy to swallow with a bruised throat.  He was about halfway through the bowl, a careful balancing act of an icepack on his shoulder versus the warm liquid, when he found it harder and harder to keep his eyes open.  “Did you drug this?” he asked his mother accusingly, even though he had willing took the painkillers at the beginning of the meal.</p>
<p>She raised her eyebrows knowingly and gently removed the bowl from his hands.  Her hands running through his hair shouldn’t have comforted him as much as they did as he was fairly certain that she was guilty.  His body grew lax and he could barely feel the weight of the ice on his shoulder as he started to give in to the inevitable.</p>
<p>His dreams were far less fraught than he would have expected.  There were the manacles, the room, and unsurprisingly his father.  Martin wore the damned red sweater as he loomed above him, bike lock of all things in hand.  “I took care of him for you,” he promised.  “My boy.  My precious boy.”</p>
<p>He awoke with a start, eyes darting about to make sure he wasn’t still there, that the rescue hadn’t been a hallucinatory dream.  He found only the familiar ceiling above his head, the softness of his own sheets, and the gentle weight of his restraints.</p>
<p>No, wait.  The feel against his right wrist was different.  The light coming in from the window was off, as though partially blocked.  He gingerly turned his head to the side, afraid of what he would find.  It was his mother, back propped up against the headboard, still dressed in her outfit from the day before save for the new blouse that had been delivered at the same time as the meal.  It was not his usual manacle on his wrist, but her hand wrapped around him, tight enough to make him feel secure and loose enough that she could get out of there in a hurry if needed.  His left wrist was encased in leather, which would have at least slowed him down, he supposed.</p>
<p>“You could have been hurt,” he accused as a morning greeting.</p>
<p>“By you?  Never,” she replied.  She gave his wrist one last squeeze before she leaned down and kissed his forehead.</p>
<p>She stood up and stretched while he sorted out his other wrist.  There was a quiet commotion deeper into the loft and blinked the last of the sleep out of his eyes to try to figure out the source.  It was still a little out of focus and too far away, so he pushed himself up into a sitting position, feeling every tendon and joint protest along the way.  </p>
<p>He swung his still stockinged feet over the edge of the bed and prepared to stand, only to hear, “Lay back down or at least wait for help.”</p>
<p>Gil.  The older man pushed himself up from a chair in the lounge where it was clear he had attempted sleep the night before.  A head of tousled curls peeked up from the couch itself, a blanket still loosely draped around Dani’s shoulders as she assessed him from afar.</p>
<p>“You stayed?” he asked around a yawn.  There was no JT, but it was possible that he went home to Tally to keep her from worrying too much.</p>
<p>“Of course we stayed,” Gil huffed, and looked hurt that he would even think otherwise.  He was halfway to the raised bed area now, gait stiff but shaking out the worst of it along the way.  “Where’d you think we’d go?”</p>
<p>There was the almost slam of the door and the echo of steps.  He tensed, ready for the other shoe to drop, and he watched Gil just barely do the same.  Dani was on her feet now, too casual to be real, hand reaching for the table where he assumed she had left her weapon.  She visibly relaxed at the shadow that edged around the corner.</p>
<p>“I got donuts,” JT announced as he swaggered in, large box in hand.  “I figured the kid would have some fancy coffee and we could steal some of that.  Sugar and grease are the best way to wake up after a night like that though.”  He set the box down on the counter and stared at the espresso machine like it was a personal affront before he turned to where Jessica was stepping down to join the others.  “I wasn’t sure what rich people ate, so I grabbed a few croissants too,” he told her.</p>
<p>Malcolm couldn’t see her expression or quite hear her response.  He watched instead as Dani wandered over and started up the kettle for tea.  JT pulled out his phone, typed something in, and then set to work on the coffee while carefully following the directions on his screen.  It was odd, seeing the three of them in his kitchen like they belonged there, but it was the right kind of odd for his life.</p>
<p>“Come on, kid,” Gil urged, offering his hand out for assistance.  He had clearly given up on Malcolm going back to sleep or even attempting to rest.  “Let’s see if we can steal the chocolate ones before JT eats them all.”  He caught the lingering hesitation and tilted his head knowingly.  “You’re not going through this alone, not this time, and not even if you wanted to,” he promised.</p>
<p>Malcolm bit his lip and nodded.  He didn’t want to.  Not this time.  Not anymore.</p>
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